


The Con Cycle

by stuckybarnes



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Comedy, Con Artists, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, Science Fiction, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 03:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11095752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckybarnes/pseuds/stuckybarnes
Summary: “Wren?” Ezra asks suddenly, his voice muffled against his pillow. “Do you think Ros was right? Will we know what to do?”Wren has been thinking about this since Roswell said it five minutes ago, the thought clanging around inside his skull. The unanswered questions and bubbling curiosity churn around in his belly until it’s almost unbearable. Knowing everything about the Skilled and how Carlisle provides for the apartment complex is so close. But not close enough.“I kinda think we’ll have to, Ez.”Ezra hums. “That sounds like a tomorrow-problem to me.” He says, his voice thick with sleep.





	The Con Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all! This is my original story about a group of humans born with genetic abnormalities that manifest into special skills. They're called, as you'd expect, the Skilled, and they are thought to be a mere myth by many. Resorting to petty thievery and conning to survive, this is the story of Wren and Ezra, two best friends, who are raised under their strict and secretive mentor Carlisle, and they're determined to get away from him.
> 
> I hope you like it!

_ PROLOGUE _

 

Bells jingle abruptly and Wren instantly knows he’s going to be reprimanded.

_ “Wrong.”  _ Carlisle chides, short, clipped. Wren clenches his jaw, turning to his mentor. He steps back to his starting place, away from Carlisle, hands loose at his sides.

“Do it again.” He tells Wren, and Wren stays still.

Carlisle looks at him, snowstorm eyes cold and hard, lips pursed.  _ “Again,  _ I said.”

It is one in the morning in Jackson Heights, New York, and Wren is tired. He brushes his mess of hair from his face, stares at Carlisle with contempt. He is newly thirteen years old. 

The two of them stand in the humid, dank space of the boiler room in the basement of their apartment complex. The boiler whistles and cricks and  _ clang-clang-clangs _ . Wren stirs with each creak of the steaming machine, much to Carlisle’s annoyance. The single light bulb flickers ominously and casts odd shadows on Wren’s bare feet and pajama-clad frame.  They rarely leave the apartment complex, when Wren thinks about it. He’s homeschooled, and knows everyone in the apartment building by name. This building is his friends, family, and teachers. They only ever leave to get food, money, and do business, really.

Carlisle is his father, he supposes. He'd never known his real parents - most of the people here don't. But Wren isn’t sure that he does fatherly things. Carlisle hugs him, and praises him, and makes sure he’s safe, which are all typically paternal things to do, he thinks. But Carlisle  also teaches him how to pickpocket, and cry on command, and to hone his Skill gift.

“Your charm and cleverness can’t get you everywhere, Wren. Not even your Skill will. Those traits mean nothing without understanding the tricks of the trade,” he tells Wren, his voice steely, patient. “Again.” 

“I’m tired.” Wren says, face slack.

Carlisle  gives Wren a protracted, stony stare that sends chills down his spine. Carlisle ’s eyes are such a light, crystalline blue that in contrast, the whites of his eyes look red. He knows there's no point arguing any further. Carlisle  gets what he wants.

With a heaving sigh, Wren squares his shoulders, walks toward the coated mannequin, and bumps roughly into its shoulder. He can sense Carlisle  watching approvingly. With a rehearsed “sorry, mister,” Wren holds his hands up placatingly before slipping away, hands brushing the inner pocket of the mannequin's jacket and slipping a wallet out with two fingers. No bells jingle, and Wren turns round again to face Carlisle .

Carlisle  smiles widely, his too-full mouth of teeth beaming at him. In quick strides he makes his way to Wren, claps him on the shoulder and shakes. Wren plants his feet and curls his toes to keep from swaying under the force. “Good boy, Wren,” Carlisle  says proudly, and despite Wren’s tiredness, despite his dislike towards Carlisle ’s brash ways, Wren smiles at his feet.

“When doing this with a real person, you know when to use your Skill, don’t you? And you know which Skill is best?” Carlisle  asks, and Wren knows they’re close to the end of this training session. 

“Yes. I do.” He says eagerly.

“Show me.” Carlisle  urges. “Once more.”

From Wren’s understanding, those born with Skills are hard to spot, but dangerous for the Skilled if discovered. Skills don’t manifest themselves in permanent physical traits; they are more Skills of the mind than of the body, outsourcing themselves for mere moments at a time. The more complex the Skill, the more parts of the body it requires, the more tired it makes the person after using it.

In a situation like this, pick-pocketing someone in a busy street, Wren opts for a Skill that creates a distraction. He hands Carlisle  the wallet, watches as Carlisle  puts it in his pants pocket, and then take several paces back from each other. Wren knocks into Carlisle ’s side abruptly, mutters an apology, and swipes the wallet.

Carlisle  feels it, of course he does; stealing something from a skin-tight pocket isn't as smart as stealing from a hanging one. “Give it back.” Carlisle  feigns anger.

Wren shoves the wallet into his waistband, and turns away, but not before brushing into Carlisle  again with the tips of his fingers. The veins on his arm swell, and Wren grits his teeth. They darken like ink before almost glowing, and when Wren touches Carlisle ’s side, spikes of electricity leave Wren’s fingers.

Carlisle hisses and immediately turns to examine his side. 

By that time, Wren will have disappeared into the crowd with a wallet full of treasure.

“Very good, Wren.” Carlisle laughs breathlessly, recovered from the momentary electric shock. He slings an arm around Wren, squeezes tightly. “Go on, now, get to bed.” He pulls the wallet from Wren’s midriff.

Wren slips out of his mentor’s grip, clenching and unclenching his arm until his skin is smooth and his veins are a tame purplish-blue once more. 

He clambers out of the dingy basement, up to the first level of their apartment complex. The halls are surprisingly empty compared to the usual all-night bustle of their home, and Wren jabs at the number 6 inside the elevator. 

The elevator churns and squeals to a start, beginning its slow ascent upwards. Wren rubs tiredly at his eyes and leans into the back wall, paying no bother to the hand railing digging into his back. His knees nearly give out when the elevator finally lurches to a halt, and Wren opens his eyes with a start, quickly hopping off the elevator. He makes his way to apartment 6F, digs his keys from his pajama pockets, and jangles the keys for what seems like decades. The flickering lights in the dim hall offer him no assistance, and his tiredness weighs down on him mercilessly.

The door opens with a groan, and Wren slips into the single bedroom apartment he shares with his closest friend in the entire world. Their community of Skilled in the apartment complex is highly organized, yet seemingly ordinary. Many of the Skilled in New York City live here, taking refuge in the cluttered makeshift family. Most children old enough to tend to themselves live with other children of the same age or older, and adults are free to live with whoever they please. An adult on the floor is required to check on the children once a day, and must accompany a child if they need to exit the building.  _ This is for safety, _ Carlisle tells them. It’s always  _ for safety. _

Wren bypasses their small living room entirely, entering the sparse bedroom. Their bedroom is drenched in darkness, shadows sprawling out across Wren like a warm blanket. He is met with silence. 

“H’lo?” He asks the dark, empty space. “Ezra?” Wren narrows his eyes, gropes the wall until he finds their dingy lamp and turns it on. A soft glow illuminates his olive skin, and Wren swipes his curls away from his face, staring at their blank walls for several moments.

Suddenly, as if reorganizing pixels, or remodeling the human form, Ezra appears from the far corner of their bedroom right in front of Wren’s eyes. Slowly, his skin turns from alabaster white to his regular fair skin, and his hair emerges in wisps from the shadows to form the top of his white-blond head. Wren had always found Ezra’s gift particularly useful; his own Skills have never been so clearly outright as his companion’s. 

“Sorry.” He steps away from the wall, crawling back into his twin-size bed. “I thought you were Carlisle.” He admonishes, smiling sheepishly. 

“No,” Wren grins, stripping out of his damp pajamas carelessly - honing his Skills is draining, especially when he’s tired. “He was actually in a pretty good mood today. Dunno why.” He leaves his clothes on the ground where they fall, scampering over to his allotted two drawers and changing into dry pajamas. 

“He wasn’t when he was training with me yesterday. At least we have homeschooling tomorrow and not training.” Ezra grumbles, cheeks hot. 

Wren makes a noncommittal hum of agreement, rummaging through his belongings until finding two matching socks.

“Don’t you ever wonder what else he does? You don’t wonder where we get our money, or why the grown-ups don’t take us along with them for replenishing supplies?” Ezra asks curiously, pulling his blankets up under his chin and watching Wren with furrowed brows. “I mean, there’s gotta be some reason why he’s such a jerk to all of us. You don’t wonder?” 

Ezra had always been the more vocal, the more expressive of the two, always voiced his concerns to Wren aloud, as soon as they entered his mind. His sometimes debilitating anxiety was partly to blame, Wren knows. Wren found this fine, of course he did, but sometimes things were better kept to yourself, especially when inside the apartment.

“‘Course I wonder, Ez. I wonder every day.” Wren says, pulling his blankets back and throwing himself down into his cushy bed. His belly churns with hunger, but his tiredness wins him over. “I’m just smart enough not to ask him.”

Wren falls into a restless sleep, interrupted countlessly by the distant sound of alarms and the occasional screeching of tires. Wren, who had always been a light sleeper, cannot find respite for long and stays prone in his tiny bed, floating in and out of sleep, the soft puffs of Ezra’s breath as he sleeps filling the room.

He wonders about the world around him, Ezra’s words floating around in his head until they were too hard to ignore like he usually does. Night time breeds dangerous thoughts, Wren knows. Curiosity is dangerous here. But he wonders why they can’t leave the apartment complex unattended. He wonders where they get all their resources. And he wonders why nobody has told them yet.

Perhaps it’s the impulsivity that his ADHD causes him, but he can’t take it anymore. Finally, Wren pulls himself out of bed with a huff, throwing back his covers and padding over to his chest of drawers. He pulls on sweatpants over his pajama bottoms, and zips up a sweater over his nightshirt. Stepping into his shoes, he fixes his mussed hair and shoves a pillow under his bed to make a Wren-sized lump.

Quietly, he creeps towards the door, and makes good progress before tripping on the sweaty clothes he left there earlier. He stumbles, and lands hard on his feet to keep his balance. Wren cringes, crouching down and curling his toes. Ezra wakes up instantly, bolting upright with wide eyes. He stares around wildly in the dark for a moment before his eyes focus on Wren, furrowing his brows. 

“I - why? Let me sleep, jerk.” Ezra asks simply, tiredly, and Wren feels a twinge of guilt for waking him up, but it dissipates quickly.

“I’m going to go see the outside.  _ Without _ a grown-up.” Wren says determinedly, continuing his trek to the door. 

Ezra blanches, mouth parted. “Wren, at… what time is it?” he peers at the illuminated numbers of their alarm clock, “at  _ two in the morning?  _ You’ll die!” He hisses.

Wren narrows his eyes. “C’mon, Ez. I highly doubt I’ll  _ die. _ ” 

Ezra scrunches up his nose and looks at Wren with barely stifled irritation, although he knows Ezra isn’t really mad, just worried. “Shoot! Now I’ve gotta go with you.” He grumbles, and begrudgingly gets out of bed, shucking his covers off with an indulgent amount of drama.

Wren smiles knowingly, handing Ezra a pair of sweatpants that he snatches and pulls up.

Fully clothed, Wren slips their only apartment keys into his back pocket, careful not to lose it. The open the door agonizingly slow, their breath still as they slide through the gap. Ezra follows behind him, and their door closes with a soft  _ hiss. _

As soon as they step out of their room, the two boys take hands. Ezra grips tightly, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Slowly, with the indescribable but familiar feeling of icy hot flames licking up his back, Ezra’s skill slowly turns morphs their bodies to blend into the walls around them. They aren’t see-through, not exactly, but with Wren’s hand clasped in Ezra’s, they are both able to manipulate the blind spots of others and slip into their surroundings. 

“I dunno how long I can do this with both of us.” Ezra whispers nervously, but he never releases Wren’s hand, his grip loyal and tight. 

“Just to the elevator.” Wren urges in a hushed tone as they pad slowly closer to the end of the hall.

Turn one corner. Ezra’s hand is getting sweaty.

Turn another corner. Wren desperately needs to sneeze, or start moving faster, or  _ something.  _ But they keep their snail’s pace.

They hear soft murmurs, quiet footsteps, but neither boy dares to look back. The voices are too soft to discern, but neither voice seems alarmed or angry. They’re still unnoticed.

With the elevator in sight, excitement curls in Wren’s belly, and he can hear Ezra’s breaths come in shorter, the thrill of leaving finally meeting him, too. 

Their feet press into the old carpeted halls, and they’re now mere feet from the elevator.

Finally, Wren sticks his hand out towards those two illuminated buttons beside the metal elevator doors. He can practically hear the  _ ding _ they’ll make in seconds.

With a sudden shriek and a yowl of pain, the two boys are grabbed around the stomachs. They’re pulled backwards with a force so strong that their feet swing out from under them. Ezra has to release Wren’s hand, and they both slowly emerge from their morphed selves. 

Their attacker lets them go, and both boys stumble before righting themselves, whipping around and standing side by side. 

They’re looking straight up at Roswell and Celeste Stokes - the two adults on their floor, and, probably, the closest things to siblings Wren and Ezra have. “Are you boys stupid all of a sudden?” Roswell asks angrily, his voice a wicked hiss so as not to wake the floor.

Ezra swallows thickly but both boys breathe a sigh of relief. Getting caught by Roswell and Celeste was much better than being caught by an adult they weren’t too familiar with. Or worse, Carlisle.

The Stokes twins, both eighteen, stand tall and strong, with tawny skin, curly dark hair, and pale green eyes to match. Roswell towers over six feet in height, and his curls are cropped short. He watches them disappointedly, but there is no surprise reflected in his expression. Celeste is right beside him, shorter but still intimidating. Her hair forms a flowing halo around her head, and she narrows her eyes at them knowingly. 

“We’re not stupid.” Ezra says before Wren can. “Just… curious.” He offers weakly, he smiles his best dimpled smile and his icy blue eyes light up cheerily.

“That’s the same thing, as far as you two should be concerned.” Celeste says quietly, but Wren can see her lips work to not crack a grin. 

“Come. Back to bed for you two.” Roswell says, and steps in between the boys with a firm hand on either shoulder, walking them back through the halls. Wren and Ezra peer behind Roswell and exchange looks of shared disappointment. 

Celeste opens door 6F, and stands aside pointedly. Wren and Ezra stand before the open door, staring.  _ “In.” _ She says.

Ezra huffs but steps in first, followed begrudgingly by Wren. Roswell shuts the door behind them and the two siblings wait as Wren and Ezra get back into their pajamas and crawl into their respective beds.

“We just wanted to know what was out there. Alone.” Wren says lowly, toeing his socks off and kicking them out from underneath the blankets. 

The Stokes siblings look at each other with a curious expression that neither boy can accurately read. Their eyes are stern and heavy, leaden with concern.

Nevertheless Celeste presses a kiss to Wren’s head, and Roswell rustles Ezra’s white-blond hair affectionately, pulling his blankets up around his shoulders. 

“Trust me, you don’t. But you will soon enough.” Celeste says in a voice so faint that the boys struggle to hear it.

“And you’ll know what to do.” Roswell promises, before both brother and sister step out without another word, the door clicking shut behind them.

Wren cranes his neck to look at Ezra from his bed, and Ezra looks back worriedly, sucking his teeth. “Well. That didn’t work too well. Sorry I couldn’t keep us hidden.” Ezra says.

“‘S okay. I don’t blame you. We should’ve been paying more attention.” Wren shrugs, sighing.

The room is quiet for several moments, the drone of the heater humming somewhere beside them, the occasional confused bird cooing far too early.

“Wren?” Ezra asks suddenly, his voice muffled against his pillow. “Do you think Ros was right?  _ Will _ we know what to do?” 

Wren has been thinking about this since Roswell said it five minutes ago, the thought clanging around inside his skull. The unanswered questions and bubbling curiosity churn around in his belly until it’s almost unbearable. Knowing everything about the Skilled and how Carlisle provides for the apartment complex is so  _ close. _ But not close enough.

“I kinda think we’ll have to, Ez.”

Ezra hums. “That sounds like a tomorrow-problem to me.” He says, his voice thick with sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all liked the prologue! The boys are 13 here, but the story will be set when they are at least 20. 
> 
> PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT AND KUDOS IF YOU ENJOYED THIS! And if you liked my story, check out my Spideypool ones!
> 
> ig: petr.prkr  
> tumblr: petr-prkr


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